Business As Usual
by the ersatz diplomat
Summary: Ex-Sergeant Karrin Murphy teams up with an investigative duo to help her kill things and save people. You know, business as usual.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I have long wanted to do a Supernatural/Dresden Files crossover. Because hell yes, that's why. This story takes place where the two universes overlap – a Venn Diagram of Awesomeness, if you will.

Pre-SPN Satanpocalypse, Post-_Ghost Story,_ with flashbacks circa _Storm Front._

This particular tale takes place during the events of _Unfinished Business_ (sometime after the chapter _Promotion). _

_ Clearly neither of these two original stories belong to me, and are licensed to the original owners. _

* * *

Dean peered around the corner, frowning after the woman who had let them into the house, then turned to his brother and asked,

"Did we just, uh... get magically transported into, a— like a Disney princess's cottage or something?" He sniffed the air. "Does it smell like _donuts_ in here to you?"

An enormous bobtailed gray tabby cat – it was probably thirty pounds – bounded down from the doily-decked recliner. The living room floor shook as it landed. It threw itself at Sam's knees, mrowling, and almost knocked him down. Sam stumbled backward and sat down on the sofa – powder-blue velvet and probably older than both of them. The cat followed, winding a figure-eight around his shins.

"I think the mountain lion likes me."

"The cat isn't the one we're trying to question." Dean rubbed a hand across his jaw. "Probably be easier, though."

They had spent the last thirteen hours driving through a Midwestern heatwave to check out a pattern of mutilated bodies outside of South Bend and had hit a dead end. Very dead.

No leads, nothing. A suspicious suburban coroner had pointed them to the Chicago PD Special Investigations director, who sent them to a county medical examiner, who had directed them to pay a visit to an ex-cop, and now he and Sam were currently taking up most of the living room of a cute, sunny little white house near O'Hare.

_Too_ cute. There was a Sleeping Beauty-worthy tangle of red roses inside a wrought-iron fence out front, the furniture was kind of a frilly mismatch and the smell of what was unmistakably donuts and fresh coffee made his stomach growl.

"Doesn't seem like the hunter type to me." He poked at the lace doily on the coffee table and looked around again. It was suspiciously _girly_ for a hunter. "More like Tinkerbell."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Tiny, blonde and mean." He frowned. "Tinkerbell."

"You do realize," his brother said, visibly trying not to smile, "that you just described _yourself_."

Dean held up a finger in warning and turned back toward what he had been observing.

Okay. So there were a few things in Tink's house that weren't exactly vanilla-mortal normal_._

There was a low table against the far wall, on top of it a white votive candle burned in front of a silver-framed photograph of a tall, dark-haired man who, from the corner of his eye, might have looked like Sam if Sam didn't have a phobia of scissors. A few other items were stacked neatly on the table; a row of leather-bound journals with runes stamped into the spine of each, an old-fashioned prayer card – St. Joan, and a Tarot card next to an heirloom rosary of dark red beads and a silver crucifix.

A nice guitar case leaned against the table, several months' worth of undisturbed dust on its surface – strange compared to the immaculate state of the rest of the house.

...And there was an epic fucking ninja sword in a rack on the mantel of the fireplace, but the fact that it didn't seem the slightest bit out of place in Tinkerbell's house was what really grabbed his attention.

"I don't know." The gigantic gray cat jumped into Sam's lap and bumped his chin with its nose. He scratched its ears. "That ME seemed to think she was the only person who could help."

"The guy was wearing bunny slippers, Sammy." He turned back to the fireplace, looking at the katana. It was several feet of wickedly-sharp Damascus steel resting in the rack above its bamboo scabbard. There was a familiar-looking kanji symbol carved into the hilt, what looked like rust on the iron tsuba. "Can you really take a guy in bunny slippers seriously?"

"Dean," his brother hissed as he reached for the sword.

It was shiny.

"Don't touch that."

He turned. The woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen stared up at him.

Literally; the top of her cropped blonde hair was barely level with his chin. Sam absolutely dwarfed her. She was in her late thirties, maybe, and cute – a little babyfaced, with angelic blue eyes and dimples even when she glared at him.

So she didn't exactly look like the clued-in, hardcore ex-cop the medical examiner had talked up.

"It's an antique."

It was then that he noticed the martial arts trophies next to the sword, with words like '_Krav Maga' _and '_Aikido'_ and '_National Championship'_ engraved on the plaques. Also shiny.

"Yes, ma'am."

She filled the mug in her left hand from the coffeepot in her right, her eyes never left him. "Don't _ma'am_ me."

_Awk_ward. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around again. There were a number of fresh, unpainted drywall patches along the street-facing wall, matching patches on the opposite wall.

...In a size and pattern that might have indicated automatic gunfire. From the outside.

The woman stared levelly up at him and took a long pull from the mug.

He turned to his brother for backup, but Sam was still making friends with the cat. Dean observed, hanging among the half-dozen photos above the sofa, a set of marksmanship qualification certificates in frames that looked more like they belonged an office:

_Karrin Murphy – Silhouette Pistol, Bullseye Pistol, Light Rifle, Shotgun, Long-Range Rifle—_

"Sit down, Mister Winchester."

"Yes, ma— okay."

"How do you two take your coffee?"

Dean sat next to his brother. He folded his hands in his lap. "Black as sin."

"Lots of sugar." Sam smiled politely. The big gray cat jumped onto the back of the sofa and lay around his shoulders like a scarf. It batted at his hair and rumbled with a diesel engine purr.

She stared at them for a moment, her brow clouded. "Donuts?"

"Yes, ma'am," the brothers said in force-of-habit stereo.

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose as she turned toward the kitchen, muttering to herself.

"_Hell's bells." _

* * *

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: the setting and timing of the story is always in the author's note.

Set Pre-SPN Satanpocalypse, Post-_Ghost Story_, with flashbacks circa _Storm Front. _This particular tale takes place during (and is written in the same style as) the events of _Unfinished Business._

_This chapter is set circa Storm Front. _

* * *

_[Fifteen Years Earlier]_

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

Karrin drew her SIG from under her jacket. The snap of the thumb break was anvil-loud in the hallway – it was silent in the rundown tenement. Tomblike. The air was thick, too hot for this early in the summer, too hot for this late at night.

The scene hadn't been secured yet. Getting caught off-guard in a building like this might spell a death sentence. It had for the two transients living here.

The rookie that had found the scene was still shaking, shell-shocked, out at the ambulance. His senior officer had radioed it in. It was already causing a stir out on the street, but the fire truck and ambulance parked outside weren't going to do these two any good.

It was an middle-aged couple, maybe. Hard to tell. Life had aged them prematurely, maybe drugs – the place had the familiar aroma of recently-cooked meth at the building's main entrance.

In here, though, it smelled of death.

Karrin paused. It was a moment before she could step into the room. Blood pooled on the floor, edges congealing on the dusty carpet, almost black in the light spilling in from the street. It was difficult to find a place to stand.

Carmichael swore softly. The beam of his flashlight settled not on the body but a few feet away from it. Between it and the next one. Pieces of the next one. More blood glittered on the peeling wallpaper, on the ceiling.

Dinner tried to climb back up her throat, but she didn't look away. These weren't people. Not anymore. They were dead and she couldn't help them beyond keeping what had done this to them from hurting anyone else.

"Clear?" Carmichael asked from behind her. She nodded.

They moved into the room, guns down at their sides, flashlight beams sweeping.

It wasn't...normal. Not that murder was ever normal, by any means. There was an obvious reason it had been immediately handed off to her department. The victims had been eaten like roadkill. Opened up like a package. Like a monster had done it. Only there were no such thing as monsters.

Not on paper, anyway.

Her partner sighed. "Some days I really hate our division."

She nodded her silent agreement.

Murphy had been sent to the place good cops go to die. Sometimes in more than just words. Special Investigations was CPD's equivalent of Spooky Mulder in the Basement Office, the department that got all the weird, unsolvable crap that no one else wanted.

It was her own fault. She had pushed it, had asked too many questions about the Astor case – that little girl had not been kidnapped, she had run away and those people had more money than god, and had very clearly bought somebody off, made it look like a crime as to not lose face in front of their old white money friends.

Making mention of this had gotten Karrin demoted-slash-promoted to Special Investigations, to the head of the goddamn department; she was barely twenty-seven, for the love of all that was holy. It was dirty politics, fucking all of it. The brass had wanted the last director gone, thought they had found a disposable replacement.

They didn't expect her to last a month, much less a year.

Every closed case was a big fuck-you in the face of the jerks that had thought they had dumped her at a dead-end.

She waved her partner over to the room's only other exit, a broken window opening onto a fire escape. "Over here."

There were bloody boot prints crossing the room; workboots, quite large, long stride, belonging most likely to a rather tall man, moving fast and bleeding – a trailing drip matched the footprints.

Carmichael studied the prints for a moment. She knew he was thinking along the same lines she was – weird crime scene in the middle of the night, tall guy boot prints...

"Your Mister Man, maybe?"

He never stopped giving her hell for hiring the only professional wizard in the Chicago phone book as a consultant. Even when their department's closed-case rate jumped up by almost eighty percent. Carmichael was contrary by nature. He was a good guy, he had known her dad when her dad was still around, and he always had sound, albeit cranky, advice.

As for Dresden, well. Harry seemed to be under the impression he had his own special wizardly jurisdiction that existed outside the laws of time, space and Cook fucking County.

"Again." Murphy swore under her breath. She nodded toward the door and they moved out the hall, down the dangerously steep, narrow staircase toward the flashing lights outside. "He's going to get himself killed. How hard is it to pick up a damn phone?"

"Don't hold it against him, Kar." Her partner fished a pack of Marlboros out of his jacket, lit up, took a drag as soon as they made it outside. "I think you scare the poor bastard."

She let him finish half the cigarette before she plucked it out of his mouth and ground it out beneath her heel, raising an eyebrow.

Carmichael frowned down at the embers as they blew down the alley.

"I'll radio in for a forensic team. Butters is going to own my soul after this one." Karrin started across the alleyway toward the patrol car. Her Kevlar and shotgun were in the trunk. "Then we'll check out that blood tra—"

A flicker of movement above them caught her eye and she threw an arm out in front of her partner. They both stared upward. There was a shout, a half-dozen shadows flying in different directions, unmistakable gunfire, the whine of a ricochet and muzzle flash against the dark sky. Heavy footfalls rattled on metal grating.

Suddenly a large section of the fire escape broke free and plummeted several stories, sparks flying as it scraped against brick, and landed squarely on top of their Crown Vic with a crash of glass and steel.

A cry of alarm went up from the medics. A half-dozen firefighters rushed toward them.

Carmichael calmly lit another cigarette as Murphy reached for her radio.

* * *

to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: the setting and timing of the story is always in the author's note.

Set Pre-SPN Satanpocalypse, Post-_Ghost Story_, with flashbacks circa _Storm Front. _This particular tale takes place during (and is written in the same style as) the events of _Unfinished Business._

_This chapter is set after Ghost Story.  
_

* * *

The ex-cop set a pink bakery box of donuts on the coffee table. Dean grabbed a white-frosted, sprinkle-coated monstrosity and took a huge bite, oblivious to the sizing-up they were getting. He still smelled a little like burnt polyester.

The house was warded.

Sam had seen the sigils carved into the threshold and the door frame, small enough that they would have escaped (someone else's) notice – white magic, very subtly done. Anybody, human or not, would have a hard time trying to get in uninvited.

Of course, his brother hadn't noticed. He probably hadn't noticed the print of a pistol beneath her Nike jacket, either, or the one at her ankle, and Sam would bet dollars to sprinkle donuts that Dean hadn't seen the glint of a metal summoning ring set into the linoleum floor of the kitchen. His brother is an _excellent_ hunter, but show him a pair of big blue eyes or a box of baked goods and any instinct that doesn't result in sex or breakfast seems to shut down to conserve brain function or something.

They had made the mistake of showing up in suits, carrying badges. Sam had rung the bell and at first he thought a young girl had answered, looking up at him like she had seen a ghost.

Literally – he had seen that exact expression before on the faces of people who were seeing _actual_ ghosts.

It was a grown woman, he had realized as they stared at each other, the panic on her face shifting into a heartbeat's worth of excitement, deep disappointment. The morning breeze pulled the longer strands of her hair across her face and she tucked them behind her ear, her expression slipping into a mask of neutrality, something practiced.

"Can I help you?"

"Good...uh, good morning, ma'am. We're looking for a Sergeant Murphy who used to work for Chicago PD."

She poked her head out the door, glancing around. "You're in an Irish Catholic cop neighborhood, buddy. Just stand out in the street and yell. I'm sure you'll find a few."

"Ma'am." Dean stepped forward, authoritatively flashing his fake badge. "We're Special Agents Angus and Young from the Department of—"

"Bullshit?"

"...Pardon?" asked Dean, blinking.

"Department of Bullshit. Nice job with the...what was that, AC/DC?" She gave him a thumbs-up. "You tried."

Sam's eyebrows climbed toward his hair. His brother was stunned into a state of monosyllabic grunts.

"I know who you are and what you do. My friend Butters – you met Butters – he texted me and said he had his homeboy run some photo-recognition on you guys." The woman held her phone out. A short list of last whereabouts and known aliases fresh from the FBI database took up the screen. She smiled, saccharine and lethal. "The brothers Winchester. Says here you're dead."

"We got better," Dean grumbled, shoving his badge in his pocket.

"Good for you, champ." The woman, who Sam was now _sure_ was Sergeant Murphy, stared up at them, unamused. "You can cut the crap. I've dealt with paranormal investigators before, there's no need for melodrama."

"Hear that, Sammy. We're 'paranormal investigators' now."

"For the Department of Melodramatic Bullshit."

"Has a ring to it."

"We'll have to make new badges."

"Good luck finding your cop, Special Agents Douchewaffle and Taller Douchewaffle," she said brightly, moving to shut the door.

"That might be hard to fit on a badge."

"Now listen here, lady—"

"No, don't touch the—" Sam tried to stop him, but Dean tried to hold the door open anyway. There was a snap of what might have been electricity and his brother was flung backward, yelping, off the porch and into the nearest rosebush. From somewhere in the house, there was a noise like a red alert from the original Star Trek series. "Door. Nice wards."

His brother got to his feet. Slowly. Faint wisps of smoke curled from the collar of his jacket. He dusted himself off, smoothed his hair, straightened his tie, muttering darkly. "Son of a _bitch_."

Sam turned back toward the woman and moved a polite and careful distance away from the threshold. "Your ME said you might know something about the case we're working on. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions? I promise we won't take much of your time."

She stared up at him for a long, silent moment, something pained in her expression as she pressed a few fingertips to her forehead and sighed.

"Sure. Why the hell not."

...Maybe they should have stayed on the porch.

Sam's shins bump against the coffee table every time he moves, and he shuffled awkwardly under the weight of her gaze.

"Thanks," he said as Sergeant Murphy set two cups down in front of them. She sat down in the recliner near the fireplace. The wards hummed at the edge of perception, like music playing quietly in another room. Dean chewed his donut enthusiastically.

"Definitely not freeze-dried Taster's Choice," he said approvingly as he took a sip of coffee.

"Um," Sam said, trying not to bump the table again. This house was not set up for someone as tall as him. "Thanks for taking time to talk to us, Miss Murphy – uh, is it Miss or Mrs.?"

"Just Murphy," she said. She smiled briefly at Sam as the cat pawed at his hair – the woman had kind features balanced by a stubborn jaw, a thin, faint scar running parallel to her left cheekbone, almost unnoticeable. "Karrin, if you want. So Butters gave you my address?"

"The coroner in South Bend gave us the number of a Mr. John Stallings, who directed us to Dr. Butters, who said we should talk to you."

"Well." She stared daggers – possibly throwing stars – at his brother over her cup of coffee. "His slippers may be bunnyish, but he knows what's up."

"Your ME said you'd dealt with... with the kind of thing we deal with." Dean smiled, laying it on a little too thick. "So how long have you been in the business?"

One blonde eyebrow arched dangerously. "Longer than you, sweetheart."

He could all but hear the steam coming out of Dean's ears.

"I think what my brother meant was," Sam said, trying to put as much of himself between them as possible, "what kind of thing do you deal with here? Chicago is a big town, but how much could really go on—"

"How about body-swapping necromancers, an incursion of Formor and a few different kinds of vampire," she picked up his mug and slid a coaster beneath it, "not to mention the usual idiots dabbling in sorcery, possessions and hauntings."

"What do you mean, different kinds of vampire? There's only one kind of vampire."

"Technically speaking, anything that feeds off of a mortal is a vampire." Murphy's expression darkened. "I guess 'sub-species' is a better word for it..."

They both nodded for her to continue.

"Well. There are your standard B-movie vamps, then incubi and succubi, who feed on mortal life force – fear, despair, sexual energy, and then the undead." Her voice was flat, distant. "And all the ones I've met are organized."

"Organized like Martha Stewart or like," Dean asked in an awful Robert De Niro impression, "'_I want him dead, I want his family dead, I want his house burned to the ground,_' organized?"

She looked away and nodded, the line of her shoulders tensed.

"Chicago," he muttered into his coffee, shaking his head. 'Even the freaking vampires are gangsters."

Sam got out his phone. "What do you think did this?"

She leaned closer as he scrolled through the photos on the screen, watching calmly, as if it wasn't images of livid corpses and half-eaten bodiless limbs.

Then she got up, walked to a bookshelf, and tossed a paperback onto the table. "Ever heard of a guy named Vlad Dracul?"

"Dracula?"

"Dracula was his son," Sam said. "According to legend, anyway. I read a theory in one of Bobby's old books stating that the Dracul line was originally a different kind of vampire, not like the kind we see at all – these guys were practically the living dead. Really hard to kill. The book called them something...the Black something? I don't remember."

"The Black Court," she grimaced, nodding. "Believe me, they're still around. I'll need to see all the information you guys have collected so far."

"This, uh." Dean tapped the title of the book as Sam dug through his messenger bag. "This is from the _fiction_ section."

"So are faerie godmothers, bridge trolls and the Billy Goats Gruff." Murphy sat down and started thumbing through the notepad Sam handed her. "And I've met them all."

* * *

stay tuned for more...


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